You're a Hard Soul to Save
by My Beautiful Ending
Summary: While Devon's mother is away on government business, she's on dog-sitting duty. She has finished college, and she's paying rent and holding down a job like a normal person; this should be easy, right? But there's nothing easy about getting kidnapped by Hydra. Devon has to walk the line of a double agent, watching her back at all times... there's nothing easy about this.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I think over the summer I said I'd be writing a Winter Soldier fic. Well... here it finally is, and that's just to get myself to finish the darn thing. (I'm half done, never fear). Enjoy!**

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><p><em><strong>You're A Hard Soul To Save<strong>_

Part I: Men of Stone

I wake up to a text from my mother, telling me she's going to be away for a few days –work related stuff. After making a mental note not to head over to her house after church tomorrow, I go back to sleep. It's Saturday, and no one should be awake at seven a.m.

Around nine-thirty I wake up to a bird chirping outside my window and decide to get up. I make myself coffee and make a mental note to do my laundry, just like every other day this week. "Devon, get it together," I mumble around a yawn.

Since leaving college and getting my own apartment, I've started talking to myself. After living in a dorm packed with other girls, I got used to hearing music through the walls and excited screaming at two in the morning. It's really quiet now, and sometimes I don't know what to do with myself. I turn on an instrumental playlist on my iPod and check Facebook –and then I remember Mom texted me.

I read it again. _"Please remember to walk Ruby and feed her at least once a day."_ Ah, yes. I check the time, and as it's only a quarter to ten, I feel like I'm doing okay. I get to pet sit when Mom leaves on "work related stuff." That's code for top-secret-government-doings that she can't tell me about.

It's always been a part of who she is; sometimes she'd come back with bruises or a busted lip. For my twelfth birthday, she arrived just in time to cut the cake with her arm in a sling. But I trust her to come back. I'd always stay with aunt Susan when I was younger, then she'd have Mrs. McCollum from next door look in on me when I was old enough to stay home alone. It's a little weird, though; this is her first trip in a couple months. I swallow another mouthful of coffee and text her back: _"I will. Be safe, love you."_

There isn't an answer, but I don't expect one.

After I finish the coffee and leave the cup in the sink (where it joins the other five from this week) I consider putting on clothes and acting like a real human being long enough to check on Ruby and pet her some. I yank off the pjs and throw them on my bed, pulling on old sweatpants I cut off at the knees, a sportsbra, and a t-shirt. Sometimes I missed that yellow lab really bad at college, enough that I'd skype home and ask for Mom to show Ruby the laptop, or if she wasn't feeling like cooperating, Mom would send me a million pictures. It was not fun during the summer when Ruby sat on me in the middle of the night and made me overheat, or farted on me. But she's been our dog for ten years, and she's a great dog.

I double check that no one is begging me to cover their shift at the hospital reception desk (I'm a sucker like that; I'm horrible at turning people down) and grab car keys and my phone, shoving my feet into my Chaco's on the way out the door.

I wave at the Mrs. Gallagher as I pass her on her porch, covering my huge yawn.

"Good morning, Devon," she says, smiling and holding a cup of tea.

Dang it, I already want another cup of coffee. "Morning," I say with a smile.

Sliding behind the wheel of my blue sedan, I blast the Beatles and the Monkeys as I pull out of my apartment complex. I'm only about twenty minutes from the house I grew up in, and I like that. Like if the apartment just isn't feeling like home, I'm allowed to go home and ask Mom if I can watch the news or some tv show with her for a while.

No, I haven't spent the night. But I have thought about it. But I just hit five months of living by myself after graduating college, and I don't want to break my streak just yet. Maybe for Thanksgiving or Christmas, when there's a lot of family in town and I want to be around the hustle and bustle of life going on.

I yearn a little bit for winter as I step out of my car into the hot Texas morning, already in the eighties and probably shooting for the nineties. It's been one of the really hot summers, and we haven't gotten rain in ages. When I unlock the door, Ruby's ridiculously glad to see me, trying to jump up and lick my face and brown wavy hair even though she's getting arthritic. I sit down and cuddle her for a bit, letting her wash my face –something I forgot to do this morning. Whoops. Then I go to the kitchen, refill her water and food bowls, and run a wet dishcloth over my face. Dog drool and I, while agreeable, are not long-term simpatico.

"Let's go, Ruby," I tell her, snapping on her leash. She wags her tail and smiles at me, eagerly heading into the sunshine and sniffing all the trees and bushes like they're new to her. Sometimes I wish I could look at the world like a dog and just accept the wonderful things as they come. Alas, I'm jaded. But I do try, sometimes.

We lap the neighborhood once, and I'm a little ticked that I've only got my license with me, otherwise I could've stopped at the coffee shop at the beginning of my old neighborhood and been "that girl" with the dog and checked to see if there were any cute baristas while getting another cup of coffee. But I tell myself I'll make a cup at Mom's house, because she's got _good_ coffee, like Starbucks and such, while I've just got whatever's cheap because I've got to pay rent and maybe do something about those student loans, you feel? I scratch Ruby's head and she huffs, leaning on my leg.

"Yes, it is hot," I agree, cutting through some of the scrubby, undeveloped land beside the neighborhood to get back quicker.

On second thought, maybe I'll head over to Mom's after church anyway –to feed Ruby, obviously, but maybe I'll give her a bath in the backyard and then turn the sprinkler on for her to play with. Maybe I'll bring my suit, too. Maybe –

Some huge military-looking vehicle with off-road capabilities pulls off the main road and guns its engine, heading straight for us. "What the –" I haul on the leash, trying to get out of the way, and Ruby yelps as we bolt for safety –but where is safety?

What the hell do they think they're doing? Popping noises –dirt splatters –are they _shooting_? Something hits me in the arm and I trip, tumbling facedown into the dirt.

I can taste the grit in my teeth. Am I dying? Am I shot? I felt impact –but the world tilts, and I feel sick.

Drug. Drugs. I'm drugged.

Booted feet stamping through the dry, yellow grass. Ruby's barking –growling. Leash. Still got leash. I drop it. "Go on," I shrill, trying to find her in the swimming colors all around me. "Go –go –"

Someone's black-gloved hand enters my line of sight, and I see her. Ruby. Teeth bared. Going for the hand. The hand reaching for me.

Pop.

A whimper.

_What is happening._

The darkness closes in.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thanks guys! I appreciate the reviews and the follows! For future reference, this is set before CAWS. :) Enjoy!**

**Chapter 2**

I bounce up into the air and come back down hard; my head aches and I don't know where I am. Only the sounds of an engine and loud, harsh voices ground me. My fingers scrabble at the surface under me –metal –and my mouth is dry and tastes like dirt.

The car. The men –with guns?

Taking me… _Ruby_…

I pull in a gasping breath and swallow hard as my eyes burn. I don't know why but I think I've been kidnapped and I think my dog –

I think they shot my dog.

My dog is dead.

I choke and try to –to –I don't know. What do I do? My dog is dead.

"Well, well, look who's awake. Hey beautiful." Someone grabs the back of my shirt and pulls me up off of the floor of this car. Everything spins like I'm on a tilt-a-whirl and I dig my fists into my eyes, trying not to throw up.

"If she's a crier, tranq her again," someone else says. "I don't want to deal with that."

"Just gag her. Don't waste a tranq."

"No, she's a good girl… aren't you," the first voice says. I feel a hand tuck some hair behind my ear, and my skin crawls. I jump –flinch –but I can feel a body on either side of me and there is nowhere to go but back on the floor and –

I start to shake. I bite my lip and clench my fists. They're zip-tied together. _Hold on, Devon, hold on, hold on,_ I tell myself over and over again.

But what am I holding on to?

Why am I here? What do they want? They sound like mercenaries. Not good guys. No good things are going to come out of this. They killed Ruby.

A strangled note of pain escapes my clenched teeth. The shelter had named her Ruby –she was picked up behind a Ruby Tuesday restaurant. But the song by the Rolling Stones won't leave my head.

_Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday. _

"Shhh," the first voice on my left says. "Everything will be just fine if you be good."

He's touching my hair again no no no —

"Cut that out," someone else says in a bored tone. "You know the Director said she's to come in unharmed."

"It's not 'harm'."

"It's your butt in a sling," the bored guy says. I look through my fingers fast enough to see him shrug, uncaring.

"Why did they need an eight-man squad for a snatch and grab?" the guy directly to my right asks. "I think this was the easiest mission to date."

"Wanted to see the job done right?" bored guy suggests. "Who cares, we get the rest of the day off."

There's general agreement over this point.

The van goes over another sizeable bump, and I slam into the guy on the left, jarring my head _again._ He laughs. "Whoa, so you want to start early, huh?" His hands go for my waist, and suddenly I don't know the girl who's shrieking and flailing away from him, because it can't be me —I don't know that many bad words.

Handsy growls, "You little –"

"Settle down!" the guy on my right says, shoving me back into my seat. "Guthrie, keep it in your pants." The van screeches to a stop. "We're here," he says unnecessarily.

* * *

><p>They're all wearing black, toting huge guns, and look like they could kill me with their pinkies. Then there's me, Devon Whittaker, in my t-shirt and cutoffs, the girl who majored in History after exploring art, music, and film studies, and is doing nothing in any of those fields.<p>

I can't get the word _why_ to stop repeating in my head. I can't get my hands to stop shaking. I also have to pee. How long was I asleep?

"This way," dude that was previously on my right says. He's got a terrifying scar on his face that scores his nose and travels to his right ear, cutting through it. He prods me with his gun butt. It is not comforting or helpful in anyway.

Did he shoot my dog?

"I have to pee," I say, starting to walk.

"Tough."

"No, like, _so_ bad." I'm still shaking and it's making my teeth chatter and I hate myself for it. "P –please. Please. I have to _go_."

He snorts in exasperation. "Hughes, take the girl to a toilet. I'll report to the Director. Bring her along as fast as possible."

Hughes does not look like a soldier, and he doesn't have a (big) gun. Where did he come from? Oh, he was part of the welcoming committee. He looks more like a pencil with arms. But he's got an ID badge that looks pretty official. There are too many questions here. "Uhh… come on," he says, motioning towards a side hallway. He swipes his straw-colored hair out of his eyes.

"What is this place?"

"No talking."

He's not commanding –he's nervous. Of _me?_ I push my luck. "Why am I here?"

"The Director will tell you all that," he says. We stop by a tiny door that says LAVATORY in green paint. "Hurry up." He taps his foot.

"I have to _pee_," I say, holding up my zip tied wrists. "It's gonna be kind of difficult."

He hesitates, looks both ways down the hallway, and then pulls out a pocketknife and cuts the ties.

I bolt into the bathroom and _thank God_ there is a lock. I snap it closed and the toilet doesn't look spick and span but I have to GO. I pee like a racehorse and wonder just how long I was out from the tranquilizer and where I am now. Everything is cement and concrete blocks and smooth metal walls. I think we might be underground but I'm not sure at all.

I flush and stare at my face in the mirror no one has cleaned in maybe about four years. My eyes look wild in the mirror. "It's gonna be okay, Devon," I whisper to myself. The words crack on the way out. "It's gonna be okay, it's gonna…." I pivot and lunge for the toilet, gagging and gripping the porcelain as hard as I can. But nothing comes up. I hunch there and retch and cry. _I'm losing it I'm losing it I'm losing it, Ruby…._

A fist bangs on the door. "Hurry up!"

I grind my teeth together in an effort not to scream obscenities. Grow some compassion you jerk; I was _kidnapped_.

"Deep breaths," I hiss, pushing myself up and turning on the sink tap. I concentrate on breathing and _not_ hyperventilating as I splash icy water on my face. There's nothing to dry my hands on except my t-shirt, so I use that.

I contemplate barricading myself in the bathroom, but all they'd have to do is break down the door (those guys with the muscles could probably just tap the door and it'd fall) or go get the key. It's futile, and while it might make a point, it'd seem like I was losing it.

And I was _not_ going to lose it. Not where they could see.

I square my shoulders and unlock the door. "Chill," I snap at –what's his name? –Hughes.

"Come on," he mumbles, reaching for my arm.

I reflexively slap his hand away. "I can walk, okay?" I say shrilly. "Don't do that!"

"Oh, so that's where you ran off to. Hey beautiful."

Every fiber of my being screams NOPE. It's handsy flirty guy from the truck. Now that I can actually see his face, I bet his shtick comes with the territory –he looks like a skeezy Bradley Cooper with a dash of evil. His arm goes around my shoulder and I am pressed far too firmly to his chest. "Miss me?"

"Get off!" I shove him away –or try to –but he just laughs.

"Guthrie, I've got to take her to the Director –"

"I don't think I care, Hughes. Buzz off for five minutes," he sneers, and then shoves me into the wall.

"I said, get off!" I scream, as his hands go places that I can't think about. I just have to get him off of me get away —I claw at his eyes and try to bite the hand on my shoulder.

"Guthrie don't–"

"Ow, bitch!" he yells as my teeth sink in and draw blood —that hand wraps around my throat, hard, cutting off my air. "Don't you ever do that again, you hear?" he hisses into my ear.

I make a choking sound.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" he whispers.

"Guthrie! Hey, stop it!" Hughes goes ignored once again.

I peel my lips away from my teeth in a snarl. His eyes are dull, like a snake. I honestly believe he'll kill me trying to get a submissive response. Maybe he's crazy. Maybe he's drugged. I wouldn't be surprised. There is going to be a bruise on my neck and on my hip. Whether I will be around to see them is debatable.

I dig my fingernails into his hand and score it deep as I can. If he's going to kill me in some lust induced power trip of rage then I'm going to do as much damage as I can.

He ups the pressure and _lifts me off my freaking feet_, and black spots crowd my vision.

The last thing I'm gonna see is his face. _That's criminal._

From far away, Hughes yells, "Soldier! Pull him off her!"

The pressure disappears, and I collapse, knees scraping the cold concrete. Oxygen is a wonderful thing. I pull it into my lungs as fast as I can, coughing. My arms and legs shake. Why don't I just curl up on the concrete for a second… take a breather…. I put my head down and try not to cry.

"Get him off me, Hughes!" Guthrie screams. "I swear to you I will break –"

"Okay, okay! Let him go!" Hughes hastily says.

Who are they hollering about? I roll over and see a man holding Guthrie in a headlock. His long brown hair obscures his face, but I can see quite clearly his left arm. It's silver metal, and there's a star on his shoulder. He releases Guthrie, who immediately backs away from him and swears a blue streak.

"We have _orders_," Hughes insists hastily, "the _Director's_ orders. Soldier –" he addresses the man with the metal arm, "get her up and follow me."

He turns toward me. Something in my gut twists when I see his face. A half mask covers his mouth and nose, but his eyes look raw and hollow.

I pick myself up off the floor partway. It feels like every muscle in my body is twitching and shaking. His hand reaches out, like he's going to pull me up by the arm, but I don't think I can take more manhandling today. I reach out a hand instead, and he checks himself for maybe half a second before he grabs my hand and pulls me off the floor.

Hughes is already walking, like he expects his orders to be obeyed. That's weird, because from what I've seen, Hughes is the nervous type. He was freaking out about Guthrie. Wouldn't another soldier be another risk?

I teeter, hanging onto his arm before I find my balance. I think I did something to my knee. It hurts to stand, and walking hurts. I clutch his hand as I take a step, and I'm amazed that he lets me. We walk in silence behind Hughes through a series of corridors that grow less dingy and concrete and better lit and sterile. Hughes stops before a nice wooden door and adjusts his tie before knocking.

"Enter," a muffled voice says.

Hughes opens the door and motions me inside. "Go back to your duties, Soldier," he says.

I'm still hanging onto his hand. I release my grip and hold onto the door jam. "Tha –thank you," I whisper, my voice rough.

He blinks at me and walks away.

An invisible hand squeezes my heart. The one scrap of kindness I've had in this nightmare –and I'm still not 100% convinced this isn't some awful dream I'm having –and it's snatched away. I don't even get a response.

I swallow hard and limp through the doorway.

A big desk takes up one end of the posh, carpeted room, and the man at the desk scribbles something on a memo pad. He looks up and smiles at me. "Hello, Devon."

I am dreaming. The world has come off its hinges. I pray to faint or wake up, whichever will solve this quicker.

"I know this is a shock, honey. Please sit down," he says motioning to the chair in front of the desk.

I'm not fainting. This is a problem. But my knee is screaming, so I fumble for the chair and drop into it.

"You okay?" he asks, standing and walking around the desk, running a hand through his dark hair. "I told the boys to be as gentle as possible."

My mouth twists, and I know I'm going to whimper if I make any sound at all.

"Devon, talk to me," he says, crouching in front of me and taking my hands in his. I can see the scars on the back of his hands that he got as a young man in the army.

I don't even know my own voice as I force out the word. "Dad?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"I know things seem confusing and scary right now," he says soothingly, "but I'm going to explain everything, Devon, I promise."

I look everywhere but his face. There's a stuffed swordfish behind his desk, and a painting of somewhere in Paris on the right wall –the Eiffel tower is in the background. I recognize the letter opener on his desk, and the ugly paperweight by the lamp. I made it in fourth grade with plaster and colored stones.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I can't stand it and take a deep breath, swallowing the emotion and reviewing the facts.

Some mercenary-type soldiers had kidnapped me.

Apparently my father holds some position called "The Director."

He ordered the soldiers to do it.

But my father is a manager of a medical supply corporation in New York.

"What. The hell. Is going on," I force out.

He squeezes my hands, but I jerk them away and cross my arms. "Devon –"

"Why did you kidnap me?" I exclaim, and then cough as my throat protests.

"It was the quickest way to get you here," he says, grabbing another chair and pulling it up by mine. "We could have done it another way, but this way our window of time is bigger."

Window of time for what?

"You –you're a manager," I say. "Not a soldier. Not anymore."

He smiles at me lopsidedly. I inherited that smile. I can literally feel myself start cataloguing what personality traits I've picked up from him and vowing never to use them again. "That's more my …side job. This is my main job." He spreads his hands and gestures to the office.

Do I know this man at all? "What is _this_?" I whisper.

"I work for HYDRA, Devon. We're a –"

"HYDRA," I say, cutting him off. "HYDRA, the elite Nazi science program created for the Third Reich in World War II?" I'm having flashbacks to my History of Germany class in college. Along with all the Fredricks, Williams, and Fredrick Williams who were Kaisers, we learned a good deal about the two world wars and their impact on Germany.

He blinks and looks surprised before smiling. "That's right. I forgot you ended up a history major." He leans back in his chair. "HYDRA nowadays is concerned with giving the world peace. We help control threats before they even happen."

"Is that what I am? Am I a threat?" I ask.

"What? No, no, of course not," he says, confused.

"Then why am I here?"

"Well…" he laces his fingers together, "I'm offering you a job."

This is crazy. I'm crazy. I'm dreaming. My father is crazy. "One hell of a way to do it," I mutter. My throat hurts like the dickens.

"It would be highly secret, Devon. And it's a job only you could do."

I try to think if I have any skills an über secret terrorist group could utilize –yeah, that's a big no. I raise an eyebrow because I don't want to talk anymore.

"You may not know this, but your mother works for the government agency known as SHIELD –strategic homeland intervention, enforcement, and logistics division. Now, we haven't been able to get any intel on her particular team –and we've tried pretty hard. I want you to look around at home –tell us who she talks to, what about, where she goes for work –"

"Spying," I rasp.

"…Essentially, yes," he admits.

"You want me to spy. On Mom."

He nods.

"For you –for HYDRA." For the secret Nazi science program that wanted to take over the world.

"Yes." He smiles.

I stare at him and realize, _I don't know this man._ I wonder if I ever did. "Go to hell," I whisper, and put my head in my hands.

He talks to me for a good fifteen more minutes, trying to convince me how great HYDRA is, what good things they're doing, how spying on my mother wouldn't be a bad thing –I want to plug my ears. Finally, he says, "This has all been a bit much, I know. Why don't you sleep on it, and we'll talk again tomorrow." He presses a button on his desk and some uniformed goon opens the door.

I stand and wrap my arms around myself.

"Patterson will take you to a room," my father says. "Get some rest, Devon."

I don't look at him. I let the soldier escort me out the door. He's probably on his best behavior. I hope word has gotten around that I'm the Director's daughter. I hope somebody's afraid to mess with me, because if anything else happens today, I will explode.

I limp behind him to a room that holds only a bed. A flimsy looking curtain leads to a tiny bathroom area. He shuts the door behind me.

I stare at the door, and it's got a big square of Plexiglas in the center.

"Even if I have a mattress, it's still a cell!" I scream. Then my voice cracks and gives out.

I plop onto the end of the bed and let the tears come.

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><p>I curl up on the bed and cry for a good long time –gut-wrenching sobs. The sheets smell like soap and feel scratchy enough to be hospital linens, but I wrap them around me anyway. I feel like I'm mourning something. Maybe the man I thought my father was.<p>

My parents got divorced when I was in middle school. There were a couple fights, some shouting –but it didn't really register with me. I was doing swimming, doing my homework. Sure, people get divorced, but not these people. Not _my_ parents. They sat me down and explained they were separating and were getting a divorce. Dad's stuff disappeared out of the house and he moved to New York. I saw him on holidays and for a few weeks in the summer, but as the years went on, we grew …distant.

Now I wonder if there was more to it than "irreconcilable differences."

After a while, I don't feel better –there's still a rock in my chest –but I can't cry anymore. I swallow hard and stare at the walls –they're pale yellow, and I don't understand why. I sit up suddenly. What if they've bugged the room? What if they've heard me crying? What if they're watching me?

If they're keeping tabs on me at that level, that's crucial to how I'm going to behave –what I'm going to decide.

If I'm going to decide at all.

I scan the top corners of the room. Unless they've got those super tiny invisible cameras from _Spy Kids_, I don't see anything. I slip off the mattress and rip off the sheets. I can put them back. Then I pull off the mattress and turn it over.

No tiny cameras. No bedbugs either. Good.

Dropping to the floor, I scoot under the bedframe and examine the metal. Okay, now the question is, if there was a bug, would I be able to recognize it? Anyway, there doesn't look like anything that isn't a screw or bolt on this thing. I haul the mattress back onto the frame and re-make the bed. "Bathroom," I tell myself, heading towards the curtain.

The opaque shower curtain separates the tiny bathroom area from the main room. Are they worried about me barricading myself in? I already rejected that, thank you very much. I smile and square my shoulders. _You're not gonna break me. You're not gonna break me._ There's a toilet, a small sink, a _tiny_ mirror, and a shower stall. Nothing else. I look around the pipes under the sink, behind the toilet, and in the toilet tank. Nothing. No cameras in the corners, either.

It makes me feel a little better, but I still have no idea if they have some secret spy listening device in the walls or something. But I feel safe enough to use the toilet.

There's nothing else to do besides go back and sit on the bed to wait.

* * *

><p>The door buzzes, making me jump. I look around, bleary and disoriented. I must have fallen asleep. Another random soldier comes in the room holding a tray of food. My stomach rumbles at the sight and smell. I sit up and stretch out my hands for the tray.<p>

The soldier clears his throat and keeps the tray from my grasp. "If you attempt to keep any of the cutlery or in anyway deface –"

I pull the most exasperated "who-do-you-think-I-_am_-boy, don't-even" face I can and he shuts up. "Thank you," I reply, smiling hard at him when he gives me the tray.

He scoots out of the room without another word, and the door buzzes behind him. It's an electronic lock. Good to know.

I dig into the baked potato and think about Shaylin and Kennedy, two girls I knew in high school and college, respectively. They were the leads in whatever musical we were doing those years, and they acted like primadonnas, but they got their way most of the time. They had a demanding personality; they acted like they expected you to do what they asked, and most of the time, people did. "I think I just channeled lead actress syndrome," I murmur to the applesauce. I smile.

When someone comes to take the tray, I practice, pointing with a commanding finger at the tray. He slinks out the door without a word.

_It works._


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: sorry for the wait! School got crazy! Enjoy :)**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

I'm sort of a prisoner. Sort of. But every day about midmorning they come get me and walk me to my father's office and he talks to me. I get away with just listening because I point to my throat (it's turning a lovely shade of blue-purple-green to help my case) and mime that it hurts to talk.

He's basically giving me the rundown of how HYDRA is the best thing for the world but they can only be the best thing for the world if they have good information (key hook for me to spy on my mother). Then we eat lunch together, and then he takes me on a walk around this base. I think it's all underground. I haven't seen a window or a door to the outside yet. He gets a couple of men to give their HYDRA testimonial, and it all sounds great. Like, really great. Everything they say makes sense.

But I can't throw away facts that I _know_ are true. HYDRA's got bad beginnings. Like, literally the _worst_ in the history of ever. And all the men around the base 1) look like they're the meanest fighters they could rustle up, and 2) give me a once-over when I walk by. I guess there aren't that many women in HYDRA, if at all –and that should tell me something else. Plus, I was kidnapped.

And someone shot my dog.

But by day three, it becomes obvious –they don't want to take no for an answer. And if they're going to all this trouble, kidnapping me and taking me who-knows-where in order to convince me to join their super secret organization (me, the college grad who doesn't actually have a career and majored in a useless subject unless I want to teach or work at a museum or something), then they must need me. By the looks of it, they need me _badly._

Which begs the question: what do I do?

A better question: can I out-play the players?

Okay, let's say –hypothetically –that I say yes. Do the thing. Join up. Then do I get trained for this? Or do they just send me back home? Mom's gonna know I'm gone if not by now, then soon. Will they have a cover story? They've gotta. My dog is dead.

So I come back all traumatized, something happened, etc. I stay at home, right? Be close to people, Mom can take care of me, all that jazz. Then I snoop through all her stuff, listen to her phone calls –in theory. But if I play them –tell her what's going down –then what? Obviously I'd have to report to someone. They'd get wise. I'd be pretty much dead meat. Witness protection here I come. Or I'd keep playing them –passing useless information, be a super double agent. Maybe stay alive. Maybe.

Either way, this changes _my whole life._

And that's scary.

* * *

><p>I'm calm when Dad gets me from my room in the morning. I'm attentive and I smile at his bad jokes. He gives me another helpful pep talk, and when he seems like he's at a break in his speech, I say, "How would that work, me …keeping tabs on Mom?"<p>

He beams at me and starts to explain the basics. It's like what I guessed, pretty much. Except I have to swear this weird oath. "So what do you think, Devon?" he asks.

I take a deep breath. "Well… I guess it would depend on how good your dental plan is," I say, letting one side of my smile creep up higher than the other.

He laughs, throwing his whole body into it. I join in quietly. "We've got great dental, kiddo, let me tell you." He points to his mouth as evidence. He squeezes my hand and says, "I'm proud of you, Devon. This was a big decision, but I knew you'd make the right choice."

I squeeze back. "Thanks, Dad."

_Thanks for assuming I'd spy on my mother and give military secrets to a terrorist organization. This made this much easier. _

* * *

><p>Apparently I need a physical? And blood work? And a CT scan? I ask Dad why on earth I need all that, but he says it's just routine.<p>

Some routine. I just went with it after the first round of questions because I didn't have any secret devices in my brain, and I didn't want to protest too much.

After that, it's talking with a lot of scientists (hey Hughes, nice to see you too) and high up people in suits. I've never had much of a head for names, but I'm good with faces, and I do my best to remember them all. I can maybe draw them later. As we pass the muscle men, I make a point to throw a bitch face their way.

Dad introduces me to everyone as "My daughter, Devon" and they all shake my hand and smile. He's honestly proud. I'm so deeply unsettled I don't know what to do with myself.

As we pass what must be training rooms, I see the guy with the metal arm –and it's not a glove or anything; I can tell now. Some doctor is monitoring him as he runs on a treadmill, and he's not wearing a shirt. That metal goes all the way up his shoulder and maybe under his skin, too. That's crazy.

Dad doesn't seem keen on stopping. I grab his coat sleeve, like I used to when I was seven or eight, and say, "Who's that?"

He glances through the pane of glass. "His codename is the Winter Soldier."

Huh. "Is his arm really metal?"

"Yes, it's an amazing piece of technology."

"Is he a spy too?"

"An assassin." He starts walking again.

"Oh." I cast another glance over my shoulder. "That's intense."

"Don't get the wrong idea, Devon," Dad says, putting a hand behind my back, "we need to control threats before they happen, and sometimes assassins are necessary for dangerous targets."

Funny, I always pictured guys with sniper rifles, not metal arms that look like they could take out a truck. But he's not wearing that mask now, and if he cut his hair (or washed it, my goodness HYDRA; invest in some HYgene for your help), he'd be cute.

Empirically speaking, anyway.

"So what happens now?" I ask.

"Now," he says, pushing open the glass door in front of us, "we go to work."

* * *

><p>"A mission?" I say, sort of confused. "I thought I was gonna be a spy."<p>

"It's like a training mission," Dad says, "a pre-mission. To acclimate you and test your ability."

_To see if you can trust me, you mean._ "Okay," I say, "so what's the mission?"

"Pierre Moreau, a French national who has his hands in just about every defense project on the continent. Very smart, very wealthy, and something of a playboy."

"So, the French Tony Stark?" I ask, picking up an apple from the bowl on his desk and crunching on it.

"Basically," Dad says with a smile. "He likes fast cars, big parties, and beautiful women. And he's attending a string of parties in Italy next week. HYDRA wants to take him in. We'd like you –"

"To seduce the rich guy," I finish, wiping my mouth. "I've seen _Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol_, Dad; I know how this goes."

"Good, because you're planning your part of the mission."

"Huh?" I stare at him mid-crunch.

"HYDRA operatives need to know how to handle themselves, especially those who work undercover. I need to know you can handle any stress or pressure that comes your way," he says. "But I'm confident you can, honey. Here are all the specs we have on Moreau." He hands me a really thick file. "And here is all the information on the parties: location, times, guest lists. We can get you on any one of them. But you're going to put it together."

I lick my lips and throw the apple core in the trash before accepting the files and flipping through them. Pierre Moreau is a blond guy, maybe early thirties, who looks very handsome and knows it. "Am I allowed to ask questions if I need help?" I mumble. This feels very much like a project in history class where we had to pick another spot for the D-Day landing and factor in weather, available troops, time, etc. It wasn't the most fun experience I've ever had. But then again, we could only use the information given to us, and my partners weren't stellar.

"Of course," he assures me. "And you can request whatever you need, Devon."

"Can I request a bigger room?" I ask immediately. "I'm going to need room to spread out. And a corkboard would be great."

"We can do that," he says with a smile.

"A big corkboard," I amend, looking through the files. "Really big."

* * *

><p>I'm nicely situated in my new room –which has a desk and chair besides a bed, how novel –and I'm slowly picking apart the files in front of me. Half the corkboard on the wall is going to be the mark, and the other half will be logistics. I pat myself on the back for using such terms. Makes me feel official.<p>

As I stick pins into the wall size corkboard, I mull over the mission. I wasn't expecting this, by any stretch of the imagination, but obviously I have to sell it and sell it hard for them to buy it. And they're just taking this guy in, probably to try their "recruitment" on him, so I don't feel like I'm doing something horrible and evil. Maybe when he's brought in I can warn him about what they really are.

But right now I have to concentrate.

Pierre Moreau is definitely a playboy. Multiple girlfriends in a year, not counting one night stands. I'm kinda impressed; there's info on all of these girls –names, date of birth, anything that might indicate a pattern of who he's attracted to (so I can fit into it I guess?). But I can't see anything on the surface that ties them together. They're all pretty, true, but all different ethnicities, hair colors, body types, ages, stations in life… this is a bit crazy. I wonder if he's even got a pattern at all, or if he's just indiscriminate.

I tack up all the pages that show where and when they met to the corkboard and eyeball them. That's what they do on _Elementary_ all the time.

"So… they all meet at parties," I tell myself out loud. This room is really quiet and it's getting to me. I've already started a list of what I need, and right behind good skin and hair products and a change of clothes is a radio or an iPod. "So, that's a big help. Um…." I shove my hands under my armpits and think. It's also cold in here; I'm gonna talk to somebody about that.

"He's a charmer, obviously. Bit of a rake… thinks he can just shove past Anika's boyfriend, and look at that, he does," I say, looking at one of the sheets. "And Tina's, and…"

It clicks. "Oh." All these girls had a boyfriend or a date or an escort. Or, in two cases, a husband. Awkward. "He likes the unattainable. The chase. Is that like a dominance thing?" I mumble. "I'm better than you so I'm gonna steal your girlfriend? Guys are so weird." Anyway, I go ahead and scribble down on the yellow legal pad, right after iPod: _Date._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The next day, when I tell Dad I think I have a plan, he sits me down in front of a bunch of people in suits –familiar people; he introduced me to them, but names, like I say, escape me –and I lay out what I think I can do. We're in the 'Operations Room,' where they do top secret stuff, I guess. It's just a room with a big table and weird sound absorbing walls.

"So, Pierre Moreau is going to five parties next week," I begin. "I think we should shoot for party number three."

"Why?" Suit number one asks immediately, twitching his eyebrows.

So this is how it's gonna go down. Grilled at every opportunity. "So, in case of accident, he's not immediately scared off at the first party. And also, in case of accident, he has time to regain confidence by the fifth party where we can try again –"

"Sounds like you're setting this mission up for failure," Suit number two says, frowning at me. His drooping moustache looks like it has gotten in his coffee.

"I cover all my bases," I say tightly, twisting some of my dark hair around my finger. "And I don't assume success, either; that's foolhardy. As I was _going to say_, it also allows me the right amount of time to eyeball him and flirt while making him believe it's all his idea to pursue me."

"Are you going to be at all the parties, Devon?" Dad interjects, looking worried.

"Well, yeah." I pull out the statistics. "Moreau saw each of these women two or three times before he started pursuing them."

"Honey, having you be seen so often is a little risky," Dad says. "We don't want success on this mission to jeopardize the overarching mission."

Namely, me being a spy. Damn. Well, it was worth a shot. "Okay," I say, improvising, "What about a quick appearance at the second party, just so he can get a glimpse of me and get interested? Because he does need that hook. We don't want him to get interested in some other woman at the first party and start pursing her at the third party when I need him to be pursuing me."

"He may do that anyway," Suit number one points out. "What's the plan for that?"

"I'm going to make the quick look at the second party interesting. If you plant a man in the crowd to hit on me, then my date can get jealous and pull me out of the party. If we make the scene big enough that Moreau notices, but small enough that it doesn't cause a huge ruckus, I think it will work."

"Sounds acceptable." Dad nods. I smile.

"Hang on," Suit number two says, "date?"

"Yeah," I say, "that's on page two of the list of stuff I'm requesting." I point to the stapled papers in front of them. "It's crucial. Moreau only pursues women he can't have."

"Hmmm," Suit number three says. He's been quiet all this time. "I think I have the man." He presses the button on the table. "Come in here," he says.

My happy mood disappears when Guthrie steps through the door.

Suit three says, "Guthrie, we'd like you to assist with Miss Whittaker's mission –"

"No we wouldn't," I snap.

Everybody looks at me. Guthrie smirks menacingly. I didn't know people could do that.

"He can be the man in the crowd," I say, thinking fast, "but he can't be my date."

"Why not?" Dad asks.

I clench my fists behind my back. "Because I _say_ so."

"Devon." Dad comes up to me and puts his hands on my shoulders, blocking my view of the other men. "Honey, that's not a reason," he says quietly. "What is it?"

"I don't feel comfortable that the man who tried to rape me twice gets to work that close to me," I hiss. And yes, it was twice if you count the hallway and the van.

His eyes widen from shock and then go dark. I release a breath I didn't know I was holding.

He didn't know.

I had wondered. He seems like he's got his thumb on everything going on here in this base, but I guess there _are_ things he doesn't know about. Or approve of.

"Could you give us a minute," he says to the men and Guthrie. They slowly stand and leave the room.

"Devon, is that true?" He turns back around to me.

"Yes," I say after a minute. I don't like that he actually had to ask me. "How do you think I got the bruises on my neck? Ask Hughes if you don't believe me."

He lets out a long, slow breath. "I'm sorry about that, Devon. The men here are under extreme training regimens and experimental drugs; sometimes that makes them act… unpredictably. But –"

"That doesn't excuse it."

He has the decency to look abashed. Maybe he's remembered that not only is he the lofty Director in charge of this base, he's also the father of someone who was assaulted. "You're right, absolutely," he agrees. "Guthrie will not be your date. What about Morales?"

"Who's he?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Dad opens his computer and accesses what must be personnel files. He flips through a couple before coming to rest on a man I recognize as somebody who brought me dinner once.

"No."

"How about Thompson?" New photo.

"No."

"Did you have somebody in mind, then?" he asked, copying my eyebrow raise.

"Yes," I say, lacing my fingers together. "The soldier with the metal arm."

Dad blinks. Then he says, "No, Devon. How about –"

"Why not?" I protest, planting a hand on my hip. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing, but the Winter Soldier does not go on missions like these."

" 'Missions like these'?" I say, using air quotes. "You mean kiddie missions? Missions headed up by rookies?" My voice gets louder and louder.

"No, Devon. He isn't trained as a spy. He's an assassin."

Oh. More guns and death and less subterfuge. "Well, that's not a big deal," I say. "He just has to look nice and act jealous. Maybe dance a little. I can teach him all that."

"You could teach any of these men that, Devon." He sighs. "Why him?"

"Dad…" I swallow. "Okay, when Guthrie grabbed me and started pawing me and then tried to kill me, Hughes told him to pull Guthrie off me. And he did, Dad. No hesitations over whether or not Guthrie was a buddy of his and if he should just let him have five minutes, no pause to consider if Guthrie would get him back for it later. No ignoring Hughes because he didn't care. He just… did it. If you can tell me some other guy on this base would do the same, then I'll take him, but… I trust him to have my back, Dad."

He runs a hand through his hair and chews on his lip, a sure sign he's thinking hard. "A key part of your date's job would be to make sure you're okay at all times," he says slowly. "He'd be good at that." He looks down, then back up at me. "Okay," he sighs. "He'll be your date, your back up, and your protection."

"Thank you, Dad." I hug him, to show him I'm grateful.

And I am.

* * *

><p>Apparently you need some training to become a Winter Soldier wrangler. I'm sorry, "handler."<p>

It makes me think of animal handler. I'm even more strongly reminded of that as I watch through a two-way mirror as a team of scientists assess him and 'put him through his paces.' This is like, mission prep, I guess. But you put horses through their paces. Not people. They don't look at him, they look at the readings on their machines. They don't talk to him or touch him.

And he doesn't talk to them. He just does his thing. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was a robot. But he's not, just the arm.

They haven't told him yet. I'm gonna do that. There's no question of him being uncooperative or turning the mission down. He does what he's told.

I'm starting to wonder what can of worms I just opened. It's a little too _Bourne Identity_ for my taste.

I hide my expressions by scribbling things onto my clipboard. Mostly doodles of his arm. I make a note to get his sizes. First things first –he needs a good bottle of shampoo for that hair, and a shave. And then a suit. But I've got a week to do that.

Now I'm glad. Because all his prep seems to be "do this, do that" with a point in the right direction. If he's gonna be my date, we're gonna need more than that.

"Here," Dad says, handing me a handheld device with a button and an on/off switch. It looks like a small remote. "If he behaves erratically in any way, or if you do not feel comfortable, turn it on and press the button."

"I already have a panic button," I say, showing him the pager-like device on my belt.

"This is different. It will shut him down until a team arrives to take care of the situation."

I take it gingerly and put it in a pocket. "Is that a likelihood?" I ask.

"No, of course not. I wouldn't let him out in the field with you if it were. It's an emergency precaution."

How does HYDRA define erratic? Thinking for oneself? I make a mental note to lose the remote at the earliest opportunity.

The scientists finish, and give a thumbs up to the window. I set my clipboard down and push the pager to the back of my belt.

"You sure about this, Devon?" Dad asks me.

"It'll be fine," I assure him, and step into the lab room as the scientists step out.

He's sitting on the lab table shirtless. Just sitting. Waiting. I can see the metal plating goes all the way up his arm and creeps across his chest, too. I asked what happened to him, but I hear that's 'classified.' But I know HYDRA 'got him' from the KGB, which accounts for the red star on the shoulder of his arm. I guess they didn't care about painting it over with that little octopus head thing they stamp on all their stuff. It's funny –that's not really a hydra: in mythology they've got many heads, not many arms. Typical terrorist mistakes.

I think he's better off with the star.

I hesitate for a minute. There's the chairs the scientists used that I could sit in –but no. I don't want to have any connection to these people.

"Hi," I say quietly, and smile. He looks up at me when I walk towards him, and I feel like he's assessing me, trying to figure out just what I'm doing in here. "Do you remember me?" I walk right up to his lab table and lean against it. My back's to the window, and I'm on his right side –the flesh side.

He frowns, and I don't see any recognition in his eyes. "I wouldn't hold it against you if you didn't," I continue, still smiling, though it does hurt a little. "It was pretty quick. My name's Devon. What's yours?"

After a long moment, he licks his lips and says, "Don't have one." His voice is warm, but rough and cracked, not used much.

I feel my heart break a little bit. "Well, what do they call you, then?" I ask gently.

"Soldier."

"Lovely," I murmur. Note to self: never call him that. "Well, you see, I was put in charge of planning a mission. I need to make a rich guy jealous," I say with a little laugh, "so HYDRA can bring him in. But in order to do that, I need a date for a few days. I got to pick who I want to work with, and I picked you." I let this sink in, but he just blinks at me. Underneath all that hair, he's got some lovely eyes. Big dark circles though. "I'm gonna teach you everything you need to know," I promise. "Does that sound okay to you?"

Silence.

He's not clicking with me, or I'm not clicking with him. I don't even know what he's thinking. I bite my lip and swing myself up beside him on the lab table, feet dangling down towards the floor. I can just imagine the whispers behind the glass.

"Listen," I say as our elbows just barely brush, "you're the only person in the base I trust to have my back. I don't actually know why –maybe you follow orders well, I don't know –but I know you gave me a hand when I needed it." I look up at him, and to my great surprise he's looking down at me. "What do you say?"

"Okay."

I'll take it. I let out my breath and beam at him. "Thank you. Let's get to work."

* * *

><p>I've been assigned Morales as my fetcher and carrier, and I've thanked the Lord many times that he doesn't ask a whole lot of questions. I don't know where he gets the stuff I ask for, but he does it. If Dad had shut me down 100% about the Winter Soldier, I probably would have been okay having him as a date.<p>

But luckily, I got my way.

When Morales shows up at my door with high quality shampoo, conditioner, soap, acne medicine (for me), t-shirts, sweatpants, towels, and a one-piece swimsuit and a pair of swim trunks, he doesn't bat an eye. "Thanks Morales," I say, and shut the door after him.

"Okay," I say, partly to myself, and partly to the Soldier. I need to think up something else to call him, but it's gonna take a bit. "Before we start on the hard stuff, we've got to get a jump on the looks part of this. So Operation Wash Your Hair is go." I hand him the swim trunks. "Go ahead and put these on… in the bathroom," I add as he starts to strip. Very literal, this one.

While he's doing that, I bless the years I took swim team, which didn't make me fast in the water but made me able to change in under a minute and in plain sight as well. I got my swimsuit on and put on my cutoffs over it. Grabbing the towels, a change of clothes, and all the bottles, I knock on the door. "You decent, honey?"

"Yes," he says, muffled through the door.

Okay, not 'honey.' It sounds like I'm babysitting. Though I have given lots of baths to a lot of kids, which is probably where I got it.

I open the door. It's an upgrade from the curtain but it's still flimsy. No lock. But the shower is a walk-in doozy, and I love it. All the bottles go on the toilet seat and I pile the towels on the floor. "So, Hughes told me your arm isn't a hundred percent waterproof under continual exposure to water? Is that true?"

"I don't know," he says, staring at it.

"Well, it's your arm," I say, "but I don't want it to go wonky on accident, so he gave me some plastic." I think it's stupid; he's got the most advanced appendage I've ever seen, but don't leave your super soldier out in the rain or he'll rust. Typical terrorist workmanship. "That's why I'm gonna help you wash your hair and not just hand you the bottles."

His eyes widen, finally understanding why I'm wearing a suit too.

I pause with the plastic outstretched. "Hey, if you don't get why we're doing something, or you're uncomfortable, or, like, whatever –it's totally okay to ask me. I don't bite," I say with a smile. "We're partners now."

I examine the stuff Hughes gave me –really just a big bag made of industrial plastic. "Would it be uncomfortable to bend your arm up in this?" I ask. "I don't think this is gonna be big enough to do the job."

He obliges immediately. "No problem."

I grin. "Thanks sugar." Okay, not that either. Still too much of a food nickname, and I hate those. I quickly tape up the plastic around his metal parts. His skin is very cool, like he's been in a room with the air conditioner on high. I don't know why he doesn't have goose bumps. "Alright, let me know if I get soap in your eyes or anything like that, 'kay?"

He nods, and I turn the shower on.

I think it goes pretty well. The water blasts out cold, and we both jump, but it warms up fast, and I leave it pretty warm. I tell him what each bottle is for and squirt some goop out for him, and he rubs in the shampoo or facewash or whatever. I give him an extra hand with the shampoo and conditioner –he's got a lot of hair and only one hand. I use all the products, too; I figured it'd just be easier to explain with action. But he gets it down well.

I hand him the bar of soap last and say, "Okay, you can do the rest of you. And there's a towel and clothes right there, so just come on out when you're ready." I step out of the shower and grab my towel, exiting the bathroom and closing the door behind me.

As I hurriedly drop my wet shorts and peel my swimsuit off, I realize how this would look to just about anybody else, and I yank my t-shirt and sweats on as fast as possible. The towel goes around my wet hair, and I go hunting for the comb and brush I put somewhere else. It got buried in among the bags on my bed. I need to request something else, like a dresser or shelves to keep all this stuff in.

I kick about half the bags under the bed and clear off space to sit, and sit down to towel-dry my hair and wait.

To my slight surprise, he doesn't come out immediately. It's funny, with his reputation as an order-follower I expected him to be out as soon as he had rinsed himself off. But I cross my fingers and hope that's a good sign.

He can't even remember his own name. And sometimes he looks at me like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. I think someone has been messing with his head. Or he's got amnesia. Either way, that sucks.

When he finally opens the door dressed in the new clothes, a gush of warm steam follows him out the door, and his skin glows pink-red. I remember his cold skin. He probably cranked the hot water up all the way. His hair hangs around his face in damp streaks, and the plastic is gone from his metal arm.

"Hey," I say, smiling, "who knew such a nice-looking guy was hiding under all that hair." I pat the bed. "I'll comb it for you." He sits and I run a comb through his hair, slicking it back. I'm too afraid to cut it –I don't cut hair, and everyone else in this place just buzzes it away. I need a jealous-worthy boyfriend, not a pitying glance because I'm walking around with a dude that looks like he walked under a lawnmower. "There. Pretty nice, huh?" I fish for a hand mirror and show him. He inspects himself without comment and hands it back.

I bite the inside of my lip and sigh inwardly. "Okay. Phase one: done. Time for phase two."


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: I'm so sorry about the wait. I am trash, I know that. But the holidays were super busy and i am trying to get my 250 pages of my portfolio finished before school starts next semester. But in honor of Agent Carter (WHICH WAS THE BOMB OKAY I CAN'T EVEN DESCRIBE IT) have an update. Feel free to pester me to death, that's how I write more! :) Love you all!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

Phase two consists of him standing in the middle of the room reading all the briefings that I've already read, plus the notes I've written out myself as I squat and measure him with a fabric tape measure.

"When's my computer comin', Morales?" I mumble around the pen in my mouth. I scribble down the length of his leg on the notepad at my feet before snaking the tape measure around his waist.

"Soon," Morales promises, rubbing the scar along his jaw, light against his tanned skin. "Does it need internet access?"

I stare at him like he's crazy. "Yes. I need to look up the best tailors. And popular dress styles." Plus I need to get Pandora going in here; it's too quiet.

"Okay," he says, and leaves.

"Hey, sweetheart, can you lift your right arm for me?" I say, standing up and scribbling his waist measurements on the pad. He does, completely absorbed in the file he's holding. "Thanks," I say, wrapping the tape measure around his arm. I need to check to see if his metal arm is actually thicker than his flesh arm, and if that's going to affect the measurements.

Morales knocks on the door and pokes his head back in. "Will an iPad be okay?"

"Sure thing, put it on the table, will you?" I say, sort of distracted. "Do you know if I've got a spending limit, Morales?"

"I can ask," he says.

"Do that." I scribble down his right arm's measurements and switch sides. "Can I have this arm now, Sweetheart?"

He obliges, lifting his metal appendage and shifting the file to his other hand.

"Hey, do you know if fabric gets caught in the interlocking pieces of your arm?" I tap the pieces. It's a very classy piece of machinery. He's got full range of motion with this thing.

"No," he says, "not unless I'm doing something that would force the fabric into the gaps."

"Well, if I get your measurements right, that shouldn't happen." I put the pen in between my teeth and run the tape from his shoulder to the floor. "You know your shoe size?" I mumble.

"No."

I scribble down that number and measure the length of his feet and their width. "Guess we'll do some googling," I say, not having much experience with men's shoes.

I grab the iPad and get on the Internet, resisting the urge to search myself to see if there's anything out there saying I'm missing. Keep it together, Devon.

"So this Moreau," he says suddenly, flipping through my notes, "he's interested in pursuit?"

I blink, surprised that he's actually asking me a question. "Yeah, he only goes after girls that already are involved with a guy. It's like, if he can get her away from him, it ups his man card or something. Which is stupid," I mumble to myself.

"So while you're flirting with him, what am I doing?"

"You're the jealous boyfriend," I say. "Don't make it easy for him to get me alone. He likes a challenge."

"But you're going to be encouraging him?" he checks, shooting me a look.

"I was planning on going hot and cold," I admit. "Playing it kind of by ear. At this palazzo, there's a big garden out back, so if he gets me away from you and I suggest we leave the party and go to the garden, HYDRA can pick him up easier without making a scene, and hopefully people won't notice he's gone for a while. Why?"

"I don't know…." he trails off.

"I'm gonna teach you how to dance, how to look, all that stuff," I promise. "It's acting. Can you smile?"

He stares at me.

"Do I need to read off a bunch of horrible puns?" I say, one side of my mouth lifting. "Because I can do that. The key to all facial expressions is having it come in the eyes." I smile blandly at him. "I'm smiling, see? But nothing is going on with my eyes." I smile so that my eyes crinkle and wink at him. "You see the difference, sweetheart?"

He nods and smiles, and it comes from the eyes. It's a little bit of a shy, bashful smile, but it's genuine.

"Good job!" I exclaim happily. Maybe this will be easier than I expected.

* * *

><p>Day two is dancing. And I've googled all the tutorials I could think of to help me, because I've never taught anyone how to dance before. Today is just straight waltzing, because it seems pretty standard for a swanky party like this one. It's not <em>Dancing with the Stars<em>; he doesn't have to learn ten different styles. Heck, I know two and that's it.

"Okay, waltz rhythm," I say, after having cleared everything in my room out of the way. "It's three beats, one-two-three, one-two-three. You're gonna put your right arm around my back, right under my shoulder blade, okay? And your left hand goes out and holds my right hand." I put my left hand on his shoulder. "Good?"

"Mmhmm," he says. I think he's caught on that I'd prefer some sort of auditory affirmation. Morales opened the door behind me without making any noise while I was on the iPad the day before. When I finally saw him, I jumped about a foot.

"Okay. I'm going to step backwards, but you're going to step forwards. Your left foot moves with my right foot, and vice versa. Okay." I move my foot backwards, and his follows mine. Now I move my left food backwards and left, in an 'L' shape. Then our feet come together.

"Good job! Now move your right foot backwards, while I move mine forwards." We do the same thing, but in the other direction. "Now we're back where we started, see? We made a box. Think you can do it again without looking at your feet?"

He frowns, looks up from his feet, subtly adjusting his grip on my hands, and moves fluidly. I follow the cues I'm getting from the hand on my back –cues I didn't teach him. He turns us in the close confines of my room and manages to spin me out and back in. He makes a tiny noise like "huh."

"Wow," I say, my eyebrows rising up towards my hairline. "Well, even if you don't remember dancing, you obviously know how. You're a whole lot better than my dance partner in college," I tell him.

"How did I do that?" He looks down at me, and his eyes are sea green and confused.

"Muscle memory," I say with a smile. "Let's try it with music, huh?" I type in waltz songs on YouTube and "Kiss from a Rose" pops up, so I hit play. "You hear the beat?"

"Yeah," he says, and takes my hands. I feel like I'm floating throughout the whole song; he's incredibly light on his feet. He _must_ have learned how to dance. _Why can't you remember?_

He spins me out and back in again, and I smile up at him, humming along with the song. Forget worrying about him; I'm the one that's probably going to trip.

We dance in silence for the rest of the song, and when it comes to an end, he just stands there, like he's trying to remember something far away. "Can we do that again?"

"Sure thing, Sweetheart," I say, and go find a waltz playlist.

I think the Sweetheart thing is gonna stick.

* * *

><p>Day three is body language. I bookmark a bunch of pages I found on the internet that explain things a lot better than I can and just let him read and digest.<p>

When he finally looks up, he blinks. I've changed out of the sweats into a sundress that's got spaghetti straps and comes up above my knees. "You read all that stuff about body language, right?" I ask, pursing my lips that actually have lip-gloss on. I've started experimenting on the best makeup look, and my hair's done, too.

"Yeah."

"Okay," I motion for him to stand, "We're going on a test run." I open the door and walk out into the hallway. "Morales, we're just gonna take a walk around the base. If you need to follow, you can." He nods. "So Sweetheart," I say, turning to him, "watch me, okay? But when we pass people, watch them, too. We'll talk about it when we get back."

I start off down the hallway. Honestly, I feel like I'm on a power trip. This kind of isn't very fair; these guys haven't seen women in a while, and I look pretty freaking good.

_Oh well,_ I think. _Rock what you got._

The effect would be better with heels, but sadly, they haven't come in yet. But I walk confidently down the hallway, shoulders back, head up, staring straight up and swaying my hips a bit. I've got my Charlize Theron murder face on, and hell yeah it's working. Guys physically turn around to watch me walk down the hallway. One poor scientist boy did a double take in shock and dropped his pen.

_Perfect_, I think, and walk right up to him and smile. "Sorry, hon," I say, and reach for the pen. Thank you _Legally Blonde_ for the bend-and-snap technique.

He babbles something incoherent as a reply when I hand it back to him. I keep walking. I'm okay with the shell-shocked looks, but many are more predatory. They look like they're salivating.

_Dream on, losers,_ I think, lifting my chin a little higher. Walk like a queen, Devon.

This is a kind of power.

"Hey, Dad," I say, waving. He's just stepping out of his office.

"Hello, Devon," he says. His eyebrows draw together. "What's up?"

"I'm teaching him about body language," I say, hooking a thumb over my shoulder where I assume Sweetheart and Morales still are. I plant a hand on my hip and tip my head up with a smile. "It's going well."

"I'll say," Guthrie says, coming down the hallway. Ah there it is, the creeper smirk trademark.

My lip curls. I turn –but not all the way. I keep my hips and feet pointed towards Dad. I give him a cursory glance, and brush my hair off my shoulder, pointedly turning back to Dad. The whole thing screams, 'not worth my time.' "Like I said," I say with a smile, "it's going very well. See you later."

I walk right by Guthrie and don't even look at him.

* * *

><p>When we get back I plop down on my bed and exhale. "That was intense," I mumble to myself. Putting on a front is tiring. I pat the bed, and Sweetheart sits down beside me. He's got scruff going on. It's kind of cute. I haven't decided whether he'll look better clean-shaven or not, so I've told him not to worry about it for a while.<p>

"Okay, tell me what you saw," I say, kicking off my flip-flops.

"Everybody stared."

"Yeah, they did, but why?" I meet his eyes.

"You were confident," he says after a second. "You kind of… demanded their attention."

"People will believe anything if _you_ believe it," I say, leaning back against the wall. "I put up the front that I was this stunning, gorgeous woman –and carried myself like that. And they bought it. And if I do that at the parties, people are gonna notice. So what we're gonna do is practice different personas for you, okay? And a lot of it has to do with body language. We could do the strong silent type, or you could be the suave charmer kind of guy, whatever you're best at and feel most comfortable with."

"How do I do that?" he asks me.

"I learn best by watching," I admit. "I pretended I was a queen, because I've seen lots of good actresses play queens, and they had that kind of allure. So let's watch movie clips."

We start with _Gone with the Wind_, because Rhett Butler, and go from there.

* * *

><p><strong>Charlize Theron Murder Face found here: youtube dot com watch?v=d2cUtdv99ig**


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